


The Brosca Alphabet

by todisturbtheuniverse



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dysfunctional Family, Friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-16
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-02-04 23:18:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1797001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todisturbtheuniverse/pseuds/todisturbtheuniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>26 snapshots to capture the life of the Hero of Ferelden, alphabet-style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A is for Axe

**Author's Note:**

> Rating and warnings may change, and the character list will expand as updates are posted. Not in any sort of chronological order.

Natia does not remember her father. Mother doesn’t talk about him. Sometimes Rica tells whispered stories about the illustriously braided beard he wore, or the gleaming axe he carried, or the presents he brought Mother. He even brought things to Rica, though she wasn’t his own.

When she is seven years old, Natia asks, “What happened to him?”

"He went to the  _surface_ ,” Rica tells her, shaping the word into a curse. They giggle through their fingers beneath the covers of their shared bed, the way they do every time Leske gets beaten for swearing.

"Maybe I’ll go looking for him when I’m grown up," Natia declares when she gets her breath back.

Rica shakes her head. “You can’t,” she insists, but Natia doesn’t see why not.

Mother sold the presents long ago. The only thing left of Father’s is the old axe, stashed in a locked box beneath Mother’s bed. Natia has never seen it, but she imagines it on the back of a faceless man who never came back to Dust Town. She decides that he must have left it for her, to help her find him.

Natia practices picking all sorts of locks before she dares to try that one. Leske locks her out of his house and loudly counts down from thirty while she cuts her fingers on wood splinters; she tries Alimar’s door with the slim metal tools she filched from a thug’s pocket; she steals some bits from the street vendor’s lockbox when he leaves his stand to piss.

She waits until her mother leaves to buy more ale, and then she sneaks into the bedroom, fingers trembling. She has to try a few times before the lock, old and disused, comes apart. There, coated in a thin layer of dust, the axe gleams dull in the low light. It’s so heavy that she can barely lift it, palms sweating, arm shaking.

It only has one blade—not like the axes that warriors carry. She hefts it in two hands and takes an experimental swing. The axe drags her along with; she loses her footing and tumbles to the floor.

When she looks up, grinning, Mother is standing in the doorway. She sells the axe that very afternoon, deaf to Natia’s pleas, unsympathetic to her tears.

For years afterward, Natia remembers the weight of it in her hands, the smooth lacquered wood beneath her fingers. She will never find it again, but if she did, she would know it—just as she would know that faceless man by the nose she’s only ever seen in the mirror, or the skin so many shades darker than Rica’s.


	2. B is for Brand

When Natia is thirteen, a Commons guard notices that her brand is peeling.

Usually, casteless dwarves are branded soon after birth, but whether by chance or design, the guards overlooked Natia. She thinks it must have had something to do with her father. Her mother has never confirmed that feeling, and Natia has learned not to ask. Questions usually provoke Mother out of her drunken stupor and into slurred shouting matches. Natia only utters the word  _father_ when she wants to practice her dodging.

There is temporary facepaint that mimics the brand passably well. Once, Mother paid for it and even applied it, but that duty passed over to Rica when Natia was seven. Now Rica pays for it herself with some of the coin she makes mending armor for the Carta. She applies it too, though that means she has to listen to her little sister’s complaints for an entire hour every week.

"Trust me," Rica sometimes says, getting a grip in Natia’s hair to hold her still, "you don’t want the real one. It never comes off."

When Natia comes home with the skin red and raw on her cheekbone, smarting from the vigorous application of the tattoo, Rica weeps. Natia doesn’t really understand why. Was she ever going to stop being casteless? She’s no noble hunter; she loathes the idea of bearing children. The only hope she has of escaping Dust Town is on the surface, and she isn’t a child any longer. The thought of that endless sky scares her now. At least in Orzammar, she knows what to expect.

Her mother doesn’t notice at all. She only mutters something unintelligible into her folded arms when Natia retreats from Rica’s red-rimmed eyes. Leske sits on the stoop outside, waiting for her.

"Finally got caught, huh?" he asks, eyeing the fresh brand.

Natia rolls her eyes. “It’s like the sodding world’s ended, the way Rica’s going on about it.”

"She wanted better for you," he says, a wistful sort of longing in his voice.

"She’s a fool," she replies, but without heat. "Anyway, what’s shaping?"

"Well." Leske fusses over a fraying strap on his boot. "Now that your delusions of grandeur are dashed…I heard about a job. Pays a little bit."

Natia folds her arms over her chest. “Time’s rusting, Leske.”

He glances furtively at her closed front door, then looks up at her. When he speaks, he keeps his voice low. “You ever heard of Beraht?” he asks.


	3. C is for Coin

On the road to Lothering, Natia takes stock of their supplies.

They picked up a lot of things in the Wilds: armor, herbs, weapons, trinkets. She sorts it all into piles the first night they make camp, dividing between the things they’ll sell and the things they might keep. They don’t have a lot of coin. More than she’s seen at once in her whole life, certainly, but that’s not saying much. It’s not enough to fight a war with. It’s probably not enough to buy more than a few meals with.

"What are you doing?" Alistair asks—the first words he’s uttered since leaving Flemeth’s hut.

"Planning," she replies absentmindedly, testing the string on a shortbow that’s still nearly as tall as she is. She’s no archer, but perhaps she’ll practice.

Alistair shuffles to his feet and comes to examine the piles. “Planning for what?”

"We need coin. Currently, our only way to get it is to sell everything we don’t need, so choose carefully. We should travel light."

Alistair folds his arms over his chest. “How can you think about money right now?” he asks, voice pitched low. “Loghain betrayed King Cailan and left him and Duncan—and the rest of the Grey Wardens—to die.”

"And we’re alive," Natia sighs, tossing a pair of tattered boots into the  _sell_ pile. She  _liked_ Duncan, but there's nothing she can do about it now. “So we need to make the most of it. Here, try this helmet, it’s too heavy for me.”

It’s only when he doesn’t take the helmet from her that she cranes her neck to look up at his face. It’s hard to tell in the firelight, but he looks angry.

"Don’t you think this is a little insensitive?" he demands. "We should be taking time to mourn, we should have— _done_ something for them! They’re all just laying there, on that battlefield, dead, and you’re sitting here counting bits like nothing’s wrong!”

Natia glares up at him. “What else do you want me to do? Fight off the horde single-handedly so we can hold a funeral?”

"You could act like you care, to start with!"

"Enough," a third voice declares.

Natia had forgotten that Morrigan was even present. The witch shoulders into the diminishing space between Natia and Alistair, her back to the dwarf.

"Stay out of this," Alistair snaps.

"Your friend is doing what she can to keep your fool skin alive," Morrigan replies, jamming a finger into Alistair’s breastplate. Frost uncurls across the metal. "Is it customary where you come from to alienate your only ally?"

Alistair rubs at the cold spot on his armor. Natia stares, surprised, at Morrigan’s back, which is really all she can see of the witch.

"I’m sorry," he says after a long, embarrassed silence. "I don’t know what came over me. This certainly isn’t your fault."

"Too right," Natia agrees. Morrigan  _tsks_ and moves away. “Now, try the helmet on, will you?”


	4. D is for Duncan

Even with mounts, the journey from Orzammar to Ostagar takes more than a week. Natia becomes very fond of the pony Duncan buys for her. They’ll sell the poor thing to the King’s army when they reach Ostagar, but for the time being, she finds solace in her mount’s shaggy coat, twining her hands through it when the sky threatens to swallow her whole.

Still, though, she doesn’t miss home. Well—she misses Rica and Leske, but she doesn’t miss her mother or even the reassuring arms of stone in every direction. The open sky routinely makes her breathless, but none of the travelers they pass do anything more than give them a friendly nod. The people of Orzammar always jumped at the opportunity to insult a brand, but humans don’t even seem to know what it means.

Her new companion doesn’t talk much. Duncan is always thoughtfully eyeing the horizon; he has a deeply contemplative presence, and Natia is too shy to interrupt. He has been remarkably kind to her, but she fears that at any moment his kindness will run out.

They are still a few days from Ostagar when they encounter their first real trouble. They’re eating around their small campfire—a rabbit Natia caught—when Duncan suddenly stiffens, sitting up very straight.

"Darkspawn," he announces, dropping his food.

Natia’s up in a beat, too, drawing her mace and dagger. She doesn’t hear a sound—the horses don’t even seem spooked—but Duncan’s a Grey Warden, and if anyone would know, it would be him, wouldn’t it?

He squints into the trees. For a long moment, all is still except the soft wind rustling the leaves. Natia’s pony lets out a nervous whicker at their suddenly defensive postures; Duncan’s horse flicks her tail, obviously used to such displays.

The wind shifts, and Natia smells them right before she hears them: like a bad wound, like rotting flesh. Only her time down in the muck of Dust Town keeps her from gagging, but it’s still a close thing. They snarl and slobber, only a hundred paces off.

"A small group," Duncan murmurs. "We should be more than up to the task."

The darkspawn growl as they hurtle into their camp. Natia picks her first target, vaulting behind a genlock and slitting its throat before it can track her movement. It goes down with an ugly gurgle.

They dispatch a dozen of the creatures. It’s Natia’s first fight with the mace Duncan gave her, and while she prefers her simple blades, it’s good in her hands—excellent for bludgeoning a creature senseless before delivering that final critical blow. Droplets of blood tickle her forehead and, standing over the last dead body, she unsuccessfully tries to wipe it away.

"Ancestors, that’s rank," she coughs.

Duncan’s lips twitch. “Impressive. Recruits are usually worse for the wear after their first darkspawn attack.”

Natia nudges a corpse with her boot. “They’re disgusting, sure, but straightforward. Kill them before they kill you. Easy.”

He nods, a glint of understanding in his dark eyes. “I think you will make a fine Grey Warden, Natia.”

She shuffles, embarrassed. “I think I saw a stream not far off,” she says. “Easy, but messy. Do you mind if I clean up?”

"I’ll keep watch," he agrees, smiling gently.

She scurries off before he can say more nice things. It’s unfamiliar and confusing, but she feels a little glow of pride in her chest all the same.


	5. E is for Exertion

Their ragtag group starts sparring together just outside of Lothering.

They use blunted weapons quickly whittled from wood scraps, or no weapons at all; the intention is not to hurt one another, after all, but to learn from each other. During their last encounter with bandits, Alistair almost knocked Natia out with his shield. Accidentally, of course, but he isn’t used to watching out for someone so short, and they need to fix that.

Leliana and Morrigan watch from the sidelines while Natia and Alistair circle each other. Morrigan, predictably, looks bored, but Natia knows she’s paying attention. Leliana watches earnestly.

Alistair sweeps forward with his shield. Natia ducks under it, rolls behind him, and delivers a swift kick to the back of his knee. He grunts in surprise and falls forward.

"It’s like you’ve never fought a dwarf before," Natia teases.

He grumbles and gets to his feet. “I haven’t.”

"You might need to aim a little lower," she suggests, grinning. Leliana giggles; Morrigan tuts.

They start again, circling. She waits, feet light on the ground, axe and dagger comfortably in hand. Their fight has caught Sten’s interest, too; he watches closely from across the fire, characteristic frown firmly in place.

Alistair swings down, a hard chop with his sword that would have made contact if Natia hadn’t somersaulted backward, well out of the way. Determined, Alistair moves forward, closing the space between them again. He tries another sweep, but she gets her blades up in time for the attack to clatter uselessly away. She feels it, though, a hard reverberation in her arms; it was a powerful hit, even if it didn’t quite connect.

They move more quickly now, a patterned step like a dance. Natia blocks and dodges, waiting for her opening; Alistair’s strikes flow together as he attempts to wear her down. The dust kicks up around their feet.

Finally, Alistair swings, a sloppier strike than any so far, and Natia darts around him. She launches herself onto his back and holds her dagger to his throat. He freezes.

"I yield," he says, grouchy and breathless.

"To the surprise of no one, I fear," Morrigan comments. Leliana claps politely.

Natia chuckles, lowering the practice blade, but just when she’s about to let go of her grip on his shoulder, Alistair lets his weapons fall and gets his arms under her legs instead.

"Defend against this, then, if you’re so clever," he announces, and takes off with her still on his back.

She drops her weapons automatically to hang on for dear life as he takes a lap around the campsite. The mabari barks enthusiastically, as though entertained by this display, and chases after them. Natia laughs, clinging to his shoulders, and for the first time in her life, she doesn’t feel like a brand or an outlaw; she just feels free, even though there’s a Blight bearing down on them and a King Regent who wants them dead.

He drops her by the fire, grinning and puffing dramatically. “You know, for being so short, you’re not exactly  _light_ ,” he says.

She punches him in the arm, just on principle. He winces. “All muscle,” she declares. “Okay, Morrigan. Do your worst.”


	6. F is for Fade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to see Natia, [iheartapostates](http://iheartapostates.tumblr.com) did a lovely commission of her [here](http://todisturbtheuniverse.tumblr.com/post/90086330291/natia-brosca-my-snarky-energetic-dual-wielding).

It has been only a few weeks in their company, but already, Natia hates being without them—especially  _here_.

Her breath fogs the unearthly air of this place. She is not particularly pious—the Ancestors have never done much for her—but she does not believe that a dwarf belongs in the land of dreams. The very fabric of this unreality seems to fold in on her, curious, as though it has never seen her like before. She keeps her axe and dagger in hand and breathes with forced discipline. Perhaps she doesn’t need to—does she even have a body anymore, one that isn’t built of mist and smoke? But she still feels her pulse, threatening to slip from her control, and that must mean that she is still tethered to her physical form, however tenuously.

She turns a corner, and half a dozen darkspawn are staring at her with mutilated grins on their faces. She hefts her weapons, relaxing automatically into the defensive posture she knows so well.

"Well, uglies?" she taunts. "Come and get me."

Their swords come unsheathed. They’re not real—or rather, they’re not reallydarkspawn—but they smell that way and they snarl that way. They stride forward, and she drops the confusing swirl of smoke that hides her from their eyes. While they’re disoriented, she takes two of them out—throats slit, death gurgles silenced.

With her companions, a group of six darkspawn would be easily dispatched. By herself, she has to work for it. She has to be very careful. She is fifteen in the streets of Dust Town and not within screaming distance of Leske when the thugs decide to pick a fight. There is no backup.

She misses the broad sweep of Alistair’s shield, staggering their enemies so that she can pick them off. She longs for Morrigan’s dramatic taunts, followed swiftly by a crackling storm of electricity. She even misses Leliana’s battle songs, but especially the precise strike of her arrows. Every second is gruelling without them. She tires, hits the ground too hard with her not-body, struggles to keep the remaining darkspawn at bay—

But at long last, with a brutal sweep, she slices off the head of the final monster. It rolls away, still grinning. Panting, she wipes away the trickle of not-blood on her cheek.

"Nice try," she mutters, cocking a triumphant eyebrow at the bodies evaporating around her.

She looks up at the greenish, ghastly sky above her—at the floating black masses that might be islands holding her friends hostage—and charts a new course.

**Fade, Reprised**

It has been almost a year, but she still hates the Fade: the slimy chill of it, the inherent deceit of it. She finishes off the last of the overgrown darkspawn grubs, grumbling under her breath, and turns back to take stock of her team.

Sigrun is paler than usual, but she has a firm grip on her weapons nevertheless. She offers a weak smile in return when Natia cocks an eyebrow at her. Nathaniel just nods, his bow still in hand, sharp eyes scanning their surroundings for any sign of movement. Velanna looks most at ease here, but that just means that the usual unpleasant twist of her mouth is still firmly in place.

"Okay, let’s move," Natia says, giving them all a reassuring grin. "I like this place just about as much as you do."

Nathaniel snorts, Sigrun chuckles, and Natia turns back to the path, still smirking.

But the way is blocked by a man she hasn’t seen in months; automatically, she takes a step toward him, a hopeful smile tugging at her lips.

"My dear Warden," Zevran murmurs. "Fancy meeting you here."

She remembers where she is, and she knows it can’t be him, but she looks her fill for a long moment. Stones, she misses him—the familiar smirk, the whiskey glint of his eyes. The Fade even got his scent right: Antivan leather, like rotting flesh.

Her team shifts behind her, but she holds a up a placating hand and takes another step toward the apparition.

"Commander," Velanna warns, but she falls silent when Natia waves her off.

She walks to him, marveling at how perfectly the Fade built the assassin she loves. Were he standing side-by-side with the real Zevran, it would be impossible to tell them apart.

"So quiet, my dear," he says, grinning down at her. "Did you miss me?"

She hesitates, but only for a second. “I miss you,” she agrees, and before the spirit can tempt her further, she swings, burying her axe in his chest.

He collapses in a swirl of putrid smoke without a word, and the Fade carries the essence of the dead demon away on its foul winds. She reaches up to tug her earring; the sharp little jolt of pain, real or not, grounds her.

"Let’s move," she calls over her shoulder.

She gives no explanation, and they don’t request one. Her fellow Wardens fall in behind her as they follow the path into the Fade’s Blackmarsh, and she eases the ache in her chest by imagining the letter she’ll write him when this little adventure is over.


End file.
